Claiming Sparks
by Boxxer
Summary: Post-apocalyptic/dystopian AU: John has been running from his past since he was nine years old. He is now living day-to-day in a broken world. He hasn't even seen another human for almost two years. That is, until a stranger named Sherlock stumbles upon him, bringing with him memories from a past that John would rather not remember. Rating for violence/mature themes. Multi-chapter.
1. Chapter 1

There used to be an old apple tree that grew in the backyard, its branches sweeping low to the ground under the heavy weight of the fruit. The thicker apples touched the tops of the grass. It was a cocktail painting of shiny reds, ripe greens, faded browns, and the clearest of blues—a mid-afternoon sky— bordering the image. The deer always fed on the lowest apples, the ones that were left uncollected during the cider season, but the best apples grew in the upper branches; it was for these that so many Autumn days were spent with scratched knees, torn pants, and the tartness of fresh, acidic juice dripping down chins and forearms.

Some of John's most vivid memories were of this tree; spinning in circles under it with his cousins while his mother called them in for lunch, crouching in the tall grass with his sister to watch the flies swarm around a rotted core, standing alone on its highest branch to watch the orange glow of fire on the horizon.

Of course, these were all before the war reached his house. Then one day, as if by accident, his village was the front line.

He could still remember it perfectly; he had been sitting on his kitchen floor with his older sister Harriet, coloring with charcoal on large oak leaves they had dried by the fire, when the shouts came from the street. He had run to the door to see what was happening. Alice, a girl who was only a year or two older than John, had stumbled across the cracking pavement, yelling hoarsely.

"They're here! The soldiers are here!"

Harriet had grabbed John around the waist and pulled him back into the house, but not before he saw the first bullet rip through Alice's stomach.

Harriet had run to the closet, where they kept their pre-packed bags. It was a simple precaution; they hadn't been able to tell exactly when the soldiers would arrive, but they knew they wouldn't have time to pack when it finally happened. She had thrust two of these into John's arms. He could still remember how he had dropped one of them, one with food in it. One of the cans that burst open on impact must have held peaches because for years after, the bag smelled sickeningly of the sweet fruit.

Harriet had run to wake their mother, who was sleeping off the bottle of rice whiskey she had traded for in town. Her speech was still slurred from it as John helped her into her coat. They had climbed through a back window and run up the dirt path to the top of the hill. John had let go of his mother's hand and run to the apple tree, a sharp rock in his hand, to scratch out the names he and his sister had carved into the trunk years before, when John was just learning how to write. The less the soldiers knew about his family, the better. It had been late summer. The dry grass had crunched beneath his feet as he ran.

They should have kept moving. He shouldn't have turned back. Just as he had reached the tree, the first soldier had rounded the corner of the house. His mother had screamed. With one shot, the soldier had silenced her.

"Run, John!" Harriet had yelled to him as she turned and fled down the opposite side of the hill. The soldier had turned, spotting John almost instantly where he stood beneath the tree. As bullets sprayed the ground next to him, he had jumped into the tree and begun climbing.

The grass at the base of the tree was too thick, and the summer had been too hot. All it took was one flick of a lighter from the soldier's pocket and the fire was already growing. The soldier hadn't laughed, hadn't teased, hadn't even stayed to watch the tree burn. With an entire town to destroy, he had more to do than think about one nine-year-old boy.

John had cried as the fire grew, consuming the apples with a constant hissing. As the flames had licked at his bare feet, he had known he was going to die. This hadn't been a new concept to him; he had lost three friends that year alone—one to starvation and two others to disease. He understood death better than he understood most things. Death was easy, it was final. It was life that was complicated. With this thought, he had scanned the ground below him. If he was going to die anyway, he was going to make it quick.

Without a second thought, he had leaped from the tree, sparks and ash circling around him as he fell through the open air. It had almost been funny to him that the only thing he could think of as the ground loomed closer was an old song his mother had sung around the house when he and Harriet were younger, back when the war was someone else's concern.

"_I love you a bushel and a peck.__  
__A bushel and a peck though you make my heart a wreck.__  
__Make my heart a wreck and you make my life a mess,__  
__make my life a mess, yes a mess of happiness__  
__about you."_

It had been the only song he had ever heard his mother sing. She would sashay around the house, hanging dripping laundry from every surface to dry as John and Harriet chewed on pine sap. It was always hard at first to not spit out the bitter, brittle chunks, but it was worth the wait when the rich sweetness of pine burst through his mouth and throat. He would laugh, coughing through the woody bark aftertaste as his mother hummed loudly. That song represented happiness and joy for him. It reminded him of better times, which was why it had been so funny to him that he had thought of it as he fell to what he was sure was certain death.

It was still funny to him almost 15 years later as he leaped from the second floor of the burning house he had been hiding out in for months. The already cracked window exploded behind him in a shower of glass shards and splintered wood, a showering force that pushed him away from the building as he fell. It was the same scene, replayed in his memory a thousand times, taking place again in this broken reality. His silhouette against a fiery background, his outstretched arms welcoming the impact as his body fell toward the ground, and the song his mother used to sing when she was happy echoing in his ears.

This time, unlike when he was a boy, he laughed as he fell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Note**

I am currently in search of a beta for this fic. I am worried that in my haste to update frequently, I will lose parts of my usual editing process. If anyone is interested, please please please send me a message either on here or at .com

I hope you enjoy this chapter! ^_^

**End Note**

John rolled as he hit the ground with a force strong enough to knock the wind from his lungs and crack one of his ribs. He came to a stop on his back, screaming through gritted teeth as a sharp, hot pain seared through his chest and shoulders. He squinted as he wheezed. He knew he had to get his breathing under control if he wanted to be able to walk away, but every breath was a stab in his side.

Everything was hot, too hot. It was all he could feel. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the cloud of fire roaring not twenty yards away, but even through his eyelids he could see the glowing flames. The house was burning quickly in the dry, unmoving air.

By the time he could manage to take a shaky breath without imagining a knife sticking out of his lungs, the house was a pile of ash and glowing embers. A few pieces of furniture remained unconsumed by the flames, toppled over in the rubble; half of a sofa, a twisted lamp melded to a bedframe, a porcelain bathtub with claw feet turned upside-down and covered with a thick layer of black ash.

It was entirely John's fault the house had caught fire. He was usually so careful when he found a new place to stay, and this one was like a presidential suite compared to the last place he had been. Not many houses were still standing; most had been taken apart by the regime for governmental use, others had been shredded by wanderers scavenging or looking for firewood. This one, though, had been tucked away on a hill, overgrown by trees and shrubbery. Even John, with his keen eyes, had almost missed it.

It had been just after dawn when he found the house. He had been on the move for two days without resting for more than an hour of sleep here or there. He was exhausted. Finally, when he could hardly keep his eyes open, he had climbed a tree to bunk out for a few hours and build up his strength. The tree was old but sturdy, so he'd climbed as high as he felt was safe. As he'd peered out from the foliage, he had just been able to see the peak of the sliding slate roof.

John was skeptical of anything that resembled the old civilization, so he had watched the house until the sun had risen over his head and begun its journey down the other side of the sky. When he was certain no one else was using the house, he had climbed down and walked carefully to the front door. It was stuck tight with grime and overgrown weeds, but with work he had managed to pry it open.

The house was beautiful. John had thought that the people who had lived there before the war must have been rich. The dining room was hardwood maple, the kitchen lined with robin's-egg-blue tile and granite counters, a stainless steel refrigerator that had been out of use for at least a decade sitting in a sunken corner. Even in the bathroom the owners had allowed their luxury to bloom, with now-grimy paintings of oceans and lighthouses in gilded frames and a pristinely white bathtub—John had never seen claws on a tub before, but it felt like a luxurious thing to have.

In the kitchen, there was a gas stove. John hadn't been able to believe his luck when he had opened it and found it nearly half full of fuel. With an old pot he found in one of the cupboards and a creek that snaked through the thick woods that surrounded the house, he had been able to fill the bathtub with boiled water. When he had finally sunk his body into it, he had wanted to cry. The water seared his skin bright red in moments, but it had been worth it for his first hot bath since he was a child.

When his skin had become so wrinkled that he could no longer feel his fingertips, he had pulled himself from the tub, not even bothering to dress again, and cooked the leftover fire-seared rabbit meat from the week before that he had wrapped in leaves and stored in his bag. Combined with a handful of herbs he found growing in what must have been an old garden, the rabbit had tasted like a meal fit for a king. He had even found a dusty but unopened can of mushrooms in the cupboard; he could tell he hadn't been the first to stumble on the house, but whoever had been there before him hadn't taken everything.

John had eaten his meal, and for the first time in almost five years, his stomach had been satisfied.

The beds upstairs were musty and grimy, but John had peeled back the thick comforters and found pristinely white sheets. His last thought before nodding off was that he wanted to live in that house until he died.

He had awakened hours later with sweat plastering the blankets to his body. A wall of fire ate at the wall on the opposite side of the room. "Well," he had thought to himself, "I always knew I was going to Hell."

He had sprinted down the stairs, grabbing his bag and shoving his legs through his pant legs as he ran. The fire had consumed the wall and ceiling on one side of the house already. Unfortunately for John, it had been the side with the door. The windows in the other rooms were boarded up tightly; no amount of kicking and shoulder-slamming would crack them. Without thinking, he had run back up the stairs.

He lay now on the warm dirt outside, curling his fingers into his hands, digging his nails in hard enough to break the skin of his palms. He mentally punched himself. His instincts had told him to run away from the fire, but he had led himself into a greater danger—getting trapped in the upper rooms of the house. It had almost killed him. He couldn't afford those kinds of mistakes.

John raised his arm tenderly, wincing as pain shot again through him. Slow, shallow breaths seemed to stave off the pain. He got to his feet, biting his lip as he stood. He straightened his back, crying out as he immediately crumpled into himself. His head pounded. "Okay," he thought, "so I can't stand up straight. Maybe if I just…"

He straightened his spine again, slowly this time, until he started to feel a twinging in his chest. He was still hunched, but at least he was capable of walking. His knapsack still hung around his shoulders from before his jump, but he kew he had probably had crushed everything inside when he had fallen. At least the rabbit meat would still be—

He stopped in his tracks. The rabbit meat. He had left it on the stove.

"Shit!" he yelled loudly, his hand flying to his side as it throbbed. Now John had nowhere to stay and nothing to eat, and night was falling.

He walked through the woods for a while, following the creek as it widened into a shallow river. When he realized he couldn't put it off any longer, he began scanning the shoreline. Suddenly, and as if he had willed it into existence, a cave caught his eye. It was hollowed into a rock face a few hundred yards above the river, the entrance half-covered by ferns.

It was no million-dollar mansion, but the temperature inside would be more bearable than it would be if John were to sleep in a tree again, as he had done countless times. He climbed the rock hill and hoisted himself into the cave, his head throbbing again with the effort and the strain on his ribcage. Leaning back against the wall, he puffed air into his cheeks to bring his pounding heart back to a regular pace. When the flush of exertion had faded from his cheeks and the pain in his side flared down, he set his bag to the side and unzipped it, turning it over and spilling its entire contents onto the rocky floor.

John had never had much to his name, and although he had always dreamed of owning many things, he had found it more practical to travel as lightly as he could. His inventory, spread over the ground before him, consisted of a few extra items of clothing, some shards of flint he had found a few months back, the rubber soles of boots he had traded for with a stranger, and an old bottle he kept water in when he was travelling. The bottle had a long crack in it; John must have crushed it under him when he leaped from the house.

He threw it against the opposite rock wall, angry with himself. He had failed himself in every way; he had almost killed himself earlier, had lost his food, had broken his one source of mobile water, and was injured. With gritted teeth, John curled his hands into fists and slammed them into the rock on either side of his legs.

"Dammit!" he yelled, his voice reverberating through the cave. He paused, almost enjoying the way his voice sounded so different when it bounced off solid rock, how it sounded as if there were a dozen others in the cave with him. He hadn't heard another human's voice in two years, much too long. He turned his face up toward the damp, dark ceiling, yelling louder, "Dammit! Dammit, dammit, dammit all to Hell!" His voice came back to him, repeated again and again. He smiled tiltedly at the forced companionship.

He looked around, calmer now that he had released some of his tension, and mentally mapped out the rest of his night. He would sleep for a few hours, set a snare or two outside the cave, then forage for whatever edible plants he could find. His belongings fit easily back into his worn bag as he stuffed them in, tucking the whole bundle behind his head as a cushion against the sharp, hard rock.

His head still pulsed as he shuffled his body lower, rolling onto his side to face the cave opening. Through the opening, he could see a faint pink shining over the tops of the trees. He smiled again. At least the pink meant it would be a calm night. No wind or rain would interrupt him while he caught up on much-needed sleep. The pink was so beautiful. Even in the wake of the events of the day, the familiarity of it calmed him. He sighed, pulling his knees into himself and gazing at the sunset.

It was then that he saw it.

He almost thought, for a brief moment, that he had imagined it. After all, it was impossible. It must have been a trick of the light, an invention of the mind, but as he shot up on his knees to get a better look, it became clear to him that what he was seeing was no figment of his imagination, no psychological mirage. It was real.

There, framed in the dying glow of sunset against the mouth of the cave, was the distinct silhouette of a man.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's note: Thanks to chrishuyen and Sayura-san for beta-ing this! ^_^_

John scrambled to his feet. Adrenaline pulsed through his body and prickled in his feet. His breath came in heavy staccato beats, his heart thumping thickly, but he could barely feel the pain that rushed in his chest from his injury. It felt like an eternity, standing there, watching the stranger watch him. Hours passed, days, months, years; John's fear was timeless and paralyzing.

It had been almost two years since he had seen another human. The last one had been a bit off her rocker. Carla, her name had been. Well, that was what John had called her, at least. As far as he could tell, she had been a deaf mute. He had stayed with her for six days and she had not spoken to him once. She would grunt and point when she was teaching him how to set a different type of snare or create a water filter from leaves and twigs and when she had wanted to get his attention she would hit her chest with her fist. John had found himself making up for her silence by chatting endlessly. He told her made-up stories from the childhood he wished he'd had. She'd never given him any indication that she heard or understood him.

By the sixth day, he hadn't been able to take her silence anymore. She was always on edge, crouching rather than sitting, and she kept one hand constantly clasped around a small knife. She would also pop up randomly wherever John was. He would be cleaning his shirt in the river and he would look up to see her sitting in a tree on the opposite bank. If he was in the woods cleaning a squirrel or rabbit, he would hear a twig snap and know she was in the thicket. It made him uncomfortable, being constantly wary of his only companion, so one morning he had made the decision to leave her. He had packed all his belongings into a bag and nodded at her on his way out, not even pausing for a last look.

He had regretted it, of course. Bad company was better than no company at all.

Two years. By the end of the first few weeks, John had forgotten what anyone else's voice sounded like. He had kept himself in the practice of talking by yelling at rocks and whispering to bugs. Occasionally an animal would wander into his company and stay with him for short periods of time, but they would always end up wandering off if he didn't kill them first.

John shook his head. It was easy to get lost in your own thoughts when you were this alone. He was startled to realize that the stranger was no longer standing in the mouth of the cave. With a jump, he ran out of the cave as quickly as he could without pain surging through his body, standing in the last rays of the sun as he looked around frantically. How long had he let his mind wander? How far had the stranger gone? Had there really been anyone there to begin with?

He had just chosen a path down the rocky slope and begun his climb when a voice hissed from behind him.

"I'm not going to hurt you."

Startled, John slipped, his foot catching on a jagged rock and spinning him sideways. He cried out in pain as his chest expanded and a fresh jolt shot through his broken rib. Almost as quickly as his fall began, it ended. John felt a large hand wrap around his wrist, catching him before he could slide any further. He was pulled to his feet, but collapsed almost immediately, his head throbbing and his breath coming again in short, sporadic gasps.

John found himself suddenly on his feet, the stranger's arms wrapped under John's own and around the front of his shoulders. He cried out again, a wave of nausea washing over him from the pain. He struggled against the man, but he was much stronger than John, and taller as well.

"Stop." The voice said directly into John's ear, sending an involuntary shiver down his spine. "This will help with the pain, but you have to stop moving."

"Oh right, and who the hell are you?" John huffed angrily, his voice cracking as his chest prickled with cold jabs.

"Just trust me."

And for some reason John couldn't fathom, he did. He relaxed against the strange man, let strong arms hold him firmly upright. After a few minutes, his painful, ragged breaths slowed, and he was able to breathe evenly. A few more minutes passed and the pain had ebbed away.

"I think I'm okay now," John said slowly.

The stranger's arms slackened, but he didn't let go until John stood on his own feet without wobbling. John took a step away, turning to face the man. He ran a hand through his hair.

"All right," he said decisively. "Thank you for that. Now who the hell are you?"

"I don't think we need to bother with names. It's pointless. I won't be staying long enough for either of us to need to use them." The man held out his hand.

John stared up at him—he really was quite tall—and frowned. "You're going to leave? Already?"

The other man rolled his eyes. "That _is_ usually what a goodbye is for." When he realized John wasn't going to shake his hand, he dropped it by his side and turned on his heel, striding swiftly away.

Suddenly, John panicked. It had been too long since he had been in the company of anyone other than himself. He wasn't going to let this opportunity pass so quickly. "Wait!" He yelled frantically, stumbling a little over the uneven forest ground as he ran after the stranger.

The man stopped and turned, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you keep running after me like that, your rib is never going to heal."

"I know, I just…" John trailed off. What was he supposed to say? _My name is John, I was born pre-war, I know how to set snares and track prints, and I'm so desperate for human contact that I am willing to make the company of a complete stranger?_

He settled for something a little less revealing. "Maybe we could help each other out."

The stranger snorted. "It's clear that neither of us needs the other's help."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you have no knowledge to offer me that I don't already have and it's clear that you know how to take care of yourself…" He paused, looking pointedly at John's chest. "…with a few exceptions. My real area of expertise is in plant identification, but you know enough about that to get by without me. I can smell the asarabacca on your breath from here."

"Asara… what?"

"Asarabacca. Wild ginger, then, if you can't handle a large word."

John's mouth fell open. "You have no right to insult my intelligence! You don't know anything about me!"

The stranger stepped forward suddenly so he loomed over John. "I know everything I need to know." He clasped his hands behind his back and slowly began to circle John, looking him up and down as he did. "I know you were born pre-war. I know you have at least a basic knowledge of plants; maybe your mother was a Healer, maybe you picked it up on the road. Your knapsack tells me you've been on the move for a long time, and your eagerness to distract me from leaving is an indication that you've been alone. You have a taste for danger—don't look at me like that; you have a broken rib, possibly a second one fractured, your knees and elbows are chafed raw, and you're covered with ash. I would assume you were a reckless wanderer, perhaps even one of the rebels, continuing to fight for the cause even when there's nothing left to win.

"But then there's your limp. At first, I brushed it off as an injury from the fall you took earlier today—ooh, I'm right about the fall, aren't I? Always am. The limp isn't new, though. You hardly notice it anymore. Psychosomatic, then. Traumatic childhood. Of course, it makes sense; you were, after all, born pre-war. You'd remember what it was like when they stormed through your town.

"It's not entirely psychosomatic, though, is it? No, let me figure it out, I'll get it. It is from an injury, but not a recent one. Maybe you resisted the soldiers? More likely it's a boyhood playtime injury, a side effect of being young and thinking you're invincible. No matter the cause, you don't notice it anymore, nor do you notice how much it affects you. I have been in your company for less than a quarter of an hour and you've fallen twice already; and I've already told you that I know about your fall earlier. Therefore, at least three in one day.

"So you're a nomad, constantly on the move, always on edge. You don't trust anyone, not since something happened, a long time ago. What was it? Family left you behind? Did your father join the army? Maybe it's guilt; you lost someone and now you're blaming yourself, unwilling to get close to anyone again. You don't want to be reminded of your faults every day. All this, and yet you're about to find an excuse to make me stay here at least a little longer."

He finished speaking with a flourish, crossing his arms over his chest as he came to stand directly in front of John again. John's jaw hung wide open. He closed it, wiping a hand down his face as he thought about everything he had just heard.

"That was brilliant."

The stranger frowned. "Really? You think so? That's a new one."

John shook his head. "Really. Terrifying, and I don't trust you one bit if you know so much about me just from looking at me, but—brilliant." He sighed and stuck out his hand. "Watson. John."

The other man took his hand firmly in his own, squeezing it once before letting go. "Sherlock Holmes. Now, are you going to ask me to hunt with you before the sun sets or are you going to stand out here with your mouth hanging wide open all night?"


	4. Chapter 4

_**Hello all!**_

_**Thanks so much for reading! I hope you all enjoy the story! Feel free to follow me on tumblr for updates at "cumberphiltrum" or under the tags "#boxxer writes fic" and "#claiming sparks"**_

**_Thanks again! ^_^_**

**_xox_**

**_-Boxxer_**

It wasn't until John and Sherlock were crouched in the brush hours later with makeshift spears in their hands and the thick scent of dirt clouding their nostrils that John realized he was hunting with an amateur.

At first it was just a niggling thought; Sherlock was graceful and moved easily in his lanky body, but when they settled in to wait for game, he fidgeted almost constantly in the early morning fog. Sticks poked him in his back, mosquitoes bit at his arms, and they had yet to see so much as a squirrel.

"Stop moving!" John hissed finally. "You're going to scare away game!"

"There's no game to scare away!" Sherlock swung his hands up in exasperation. "I'm bored!"

John stared at him. "Bored."

"Yes, John."

"You're bored?"

"Yes! Bored, John, bored! How often must I repeat myself before your simple mind grasps that?"

"You watched me sharpen arrows the whole night! You can perch in a cave for hours but you can't sit still long enough to help me catch a deer?"

Sherlock huffed. "At least in the cave you were talking."

That was true. While Sherlock had sat back on his heels, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingertips pressed tightly together, John had regaled him with stories of his past. He had told Sherlock the truth, something he had never before trusted a stranger with. He crinkled his eyebrows now in the forest, wondering how he, a man who had been alone for so long, had been able to trust so easily.

"...explains why you struggle to pay attention when I'm talking." Sherlock finished speaking with a terse nod.

John started, confused. He had been lost in his own thoughts and hadn't noticed that Sherlock was speaking to him. "Sorry, what?"

"I don't repeat myself, John. It's a waste of words and energy. Do try to keep up."

John sighed angrily. Sherlock was insufferable. "Listen," he hissed. "I—"

At the sound of a branch snapping across the clearing, he looked up. He slapped a hand across Sherlock's mouth, reaching down slowly with the other to pick up the small bow he had been preparing for a few weeks. He ignored the pain in his side. The rib was less important than his hunger.

From the shadows of the trees, a doe stepped gingerly into the clearing. A tawny coat covered her, the light reflecting off her back so that she looked as if she were made of silk. Small hooves pawed at the ground beneath her feet as she stepped over broken branches and wildflowers. She bent her head gracefully to the grass and John couldn't help but notice how smooth her motions were. She was beautiful, absolutely breathtaking.

He leaned to the side. "Sherlock," he breathed, "look how beaut—"

With a shout, Sherlock jumped from the bushes, charging at the deer with an animalistic gait.

John's mouth hung open midsentence as Sherlock scaled the clearing. The doe darted into the forest, kicking up dirt and grass in her wake.

John groaned, sitting back on his heels and running a hand through his hair. He threw his bow into the dirt. Sherlock disappeared into the trees, but even so, it was a while before his warrior cries had faded enough so that John was left in silence.

There were three things about Sherlock that John had noticed in the short time the two had been in each other's company; firstly, his determination. John had never before seen someone focus so intently in whittling a spear or shaving an arrow, but Sherlock seemed to settle for nothing less than perfection. The second was his habit of insulting John's intelligence at every turn. He always seemed to have a snide comment about the fire teepee John was building or the angle at which he was carving a bone into a spearhead. The third, and possibly the most unsettling of the three, was his uncanny ability to figure things out. John would be telling Sherlock a story about the town he grew up in or the first years he spent on his own and Sherlock would interrupt, finishing John's thoughts for him. He didn't do it constantly, just enough that it had begun to bother John. It also made him nervous to think of the imbalance they were creating; Sherlock knew so much about John while John knew next to nothing about him. He had tried to ask Sherlock questions about his past, but Sherlock just shrugged them off, saying that he had forgotten most of his childhood. ("It takes up valuable space in the mind, John, and memories of friends and old toys won't help you survive on your own.")

Eventually John had given up for the night. They had sat in silence for a while, listening to the fire crackle on the damp wood until the sun had begun to rise. Sherlock had been caught deep in thought when John finally stood to suggest they begin preparing to hunt and he had shot John a glare that had made him cower by his bag, pretending to search through it.

Yes, John trusted Sherlock, but he wasn't sure he liked him at all.

The sun was high overhead before John saw Sherlock again. He had fallen asleep in the brush waiting for his companion to sulk back. John had even prepared a small speech in his mind. He already felt as if he should start counting the number of times he was correct and Sherlock was wrong. After all, the man supposed he knew everything. It would be for his own good if someone took him down a peg.

He had woken up to the sound of snuffling. He had looked around and there, not ten yards from him, a small buck had been rubbing his antlers against a tree. It had been an easy kill and not a difficult load to carry either. Even with his injury, John had been able to sling it over his back.

He hung the deer and slit its throat neatly. Dark red blood had just begun to bubble from the puncture when Sherlock appeared in the mouth of the cave, his hair impossibly ruffled and his pants leg torn at one knee.

"Oh," he breathed, dropping his spear to the ground and rushing over to the animal. John had strung it up by its hind legs, tying them together with some vines from the woods and stringing it over a branch he had wedged tightly into a hole in the rock.

Sherlock stroked the neck of the buck, running his long fingers over the small antlers. His eyes wandered across the wound John had made in its neck, then to the floor where a thick, dark puddle was spreading. Delicately, he reached his fingers down and swirled them through the mess before pulling his hand to his mouth and, unbelievably, sucking the deer's blood from his skin.

"What the hell?" John yelled, jumping to his feet and backing away.

"Relax." Sherlock closed his eyes. John could hear him swishing the blood in his mouth. After a few seconds, he spat onto the cave floor. "We're going to need to let it drain for two days, at least," he said, wiping his hand on the side of his pants. "It will taste less gamy that way."

"What the bloody hell was that?"

"What?" Sherlock glanced up at him, then to the deer. "Oh, I suppose you want to know why I've just eaten a handful of deer blood. It's simple, John. I wished to know what the fresh blood of that deer tasted like." He stepped across the cave, kicking at the wall with his foot until he found a smooth place to sit. He leaned his head back against the rock and closed his eyes, deep in thought.

John stood in shock. He wasn't sure what to do. Sherlock sighed loudly.

"If it helps, I now know the approximate age and diet of the deer, as well as the amount of adrenaline in the meat. It must have been a quick kill. The meat will taste good." He looked at John, then rolled his eyes. "Honestly, John! It's only a bit of blood! It's no different from eating the meat undercooked! Now sit. You wanted us to learn from each other. Do you know how to make medicinal drinks from potatoes?"

John opened his mouth to argue, but he closed it again when he realized Sherlock was right. His reasoning was sound and although John had never worried too much about the taste of his food, it would be easier to chew the meat if it was less gamy. The thought of Sherlock eating the blood still made his stomach clench, but he was relieved to know that the man he was sharing the cave with was curious rather than insane.

Still, John fell asleep that night with his knife in his hand.

When John awoke the next morning, Sherlock was gone. John realized with a start that his own pack was missing as well. He jumped to his feet, a cold rage building in the pit of his stomach. He raced out of the cave, turning in circles before climbing down a path in the rocks. He walked through the surrounding forest until his feet ached, but there was no sign of Sherlock.

It wasn't until he got back that he noticed the dank smell of death in the cave. The branch suspending the deer had snapped and its carcass lay in a heap on the rocky floor. Its fur was matted down with the spilled blood and John could see where it had congealed on its neck. The skin he had split open had dried and peeled back, revealing the torn tendon and shredded artery.

The rest of the meat was undoubtedly spoiled. John kicked it angrily. His foot sunk neatly into the already rotting flesh with a wet sound. John's mouth fell open in horror.

He fell to his knees next to the heavy lump of fur and antlers, retching, his hand landing in a wet, sticky puddle. The thick, metallic scent of blood and the sweeter reek of infection flooded his nostrils as his body convulsed forward. The muscles in his jaw tightened unbearably as he heaved dryly, unable to breathe. He choked on his own throat as it constricted. The cave blurred around him and he rolled onto his back, gulping deeply when he was finally able to breathe. With the first gasp, a fresh wave of nausea coursed through him from the pain it caused in his side. His ears rang and the muscles of his abdomen ached. He ran his tongue along his teeth and spat on the floor, his saliva mixing with the deer's fluids.

He lay there until he no longer felt as if her were going to vomit, then he stood shakily and left the cave, sitting on a boulder and putting his head in his hands. With the exception of the knife, everything he owned was in that knapsack.

"Okay." He spoke aloud, standing again and pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Okay. Starting over."

He looked down at his shirt, which was smeared with drying lumps of blood. He winced, flicking one off onto the ground before peeling his shirt off. He balled it and stuffed it into his pocket, shading his eyes as he looked out across the trees until he saw where they broke—the river.

It was a short walk, but by the time John stood on the muddy bank, he no longer felt as if he were going to faint. He stepped out of his trousers, pulling the shirt from the pocket and dunking both into the water.

It was warmer than he expected and he stepped in until the tiny waves lapped around his thighs. The current pulled the blood from his clothes until the water ran through them cleanly. John spread them across a tree branch to dry in the sun. Then he lay, completely submerged save for his face, in the shallows of the water.

The muffled sounds of the water breaking gently across rocks and pebbles and the faint rustling as the light breeze shook the tall grass were comforting to John. He could barely feel his ribcage; he was weightless in the slowly swirling stream. He closed his eyes, smiling, and remembered the same scene, played out years before.

_"You know, you're going to catch a cold if you stay there all day."_

_ John sat up, his bare bum sinking into the soft mud on the riverbed floor. He smiled up at his sister. "Harriet, come in! It's warm!"_

_ She turned her nose up, crossing her arms. "I am much too old to be playing silly games in rivers. Besides, mummy needs help cleaning the house."_

_ "Please, Harriet? Just a quick swim."_

_ "Why don't you ask Jamie to play with you?"_

_ "Jamie's family moved away. He told me his mum doesn't want to live here anymore since his dad died."_

_ "Oh." Harriet looked at her feet sadly before peeling her dress off. "Watch out, John!"_

_ John shrieked as she jumped into the water. He scrambled away as she splashed him, both their feet slipping in the thick mud. They giggled madly as Harriet's braid came untangled in the water and her hair flopped wetly on her shoulders._

_ "Harriet!"_

_ At the shrill sound of their mother's voice, they looked up from their fun, sobering instantly._

_ Harriet climbed quickly from the water, grabbing up her dress and pulling it over her still-soaked body and running into the house._

_ Later that night, when his mother thought he was asleep, John sat by his open doorway, listening to his sister apologizing._

_ "I'm sorry, mummy, but he looked so sad about Jamie leaving!"_

_ "Harriet, you need to grow up. You don't have time to be a child! What if the soldiers came into town today? What would you do if I told you and John to run without me? You need to be able to take care of him!"_

_ "I know! I promise I will! I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"_

_ Their mother sighed, pulling Harriet into a brief hug. When she pushed her away, she brushed Harriet's still-wet hair out of her eyes and brushed a tear off her cheek. "I know, love. You just need to remember what's important. John needs to be safe. He was only a baby when your father was killed, but you were there. That's when you grew up. We can't let that happen to John."_

_ Having heard enough, John snuck out his window, running over the crest of the hill to the river. He stripped naked and stepped into the icy water, scooping up handfuls of the slimy mud and smearing it across his chest and face until he blended in with the darkness._

John sat up as a sob pulled him from his memory. He didn't like to think of his mother or Harriet. It was too painful. He breathed deeply, willing himself to stop crying. His clothes weren't fully dried yet, but he pulled them on anyway when he climbed out of the water. He stumbled back to the cave, trying to push the memories away. He thought instead of what he was going to do next, where he was going to go. Snares, he had to set snares. He had to gather water. He had to get enough food to travel for a few days.

He remembered his knife, lying in the cave where he had dropped it earlier.

It was a quick climb up the rocks, one that John was beginning to become familiar with. He hoisted his leg over the last boulder, grimacing and bracing himself against stone as the twinge in his side deepened.

His heart froze in his chest as he heard a clatter from inside the cave.

Biting his lip for courage, he peered around the edge and into the dim hole. There, a large figure hunched over the deer. As John's eyes adjusted, he was able to see more clearly that it was Sherlock, kneeling next to the carcass, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his forearms deep inside the buck's belly.

Without a second thought, John marched into the cave.

Sherlock looked up, expressionless when he saw John. "Ah, excellent. Would you hand me your knife? I'm going to need it to—"

He had barely begun speaking when John swung out with a clenched fist, punching Sherlock directly in the jaw.


	5. Chapter 5

_***NOTE***_

_Hey everyone! This is another shameless self-promo. Follow me on tumblr at cumberphiltrum!_

_Sorry for the short chapter. I may be a few days late with the next one because I'm doing GISHWHES this week! Expect a longer chapter next time around._

_I hope you enjoy it! Please review! Special thanks to my betas, users Sayura-san and chrishuyen._

_***END NOTE***_

"What was that for?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Why did you hit me?"

"What the hell were you thinking?"

"My lip is bleeding!"

"You're such a bastard!"

John's chest heaved as he yelled the last insult at Sherlock, who lay sprawled on his side where he had fallen when John had punched him. A small trickle of blood trailed from the corner of Sherlock's mouth from a jagged cut where his tooth had pierced through the skin. He lifted a hand, wiping it away. It left a scarlet smear across his cheek. For a moment, John almost felt bad for hitting Sherlock, but with the next breath the moment passed.

"Why?" He spat the question at Sherlock like venom.

Sherlock frowned. "Why what?"

"Why the hell did you take my pack? If you wanted to leave, that's fine. Just go. But don't fuck up my life on your way out! Everything I own is in that pack. Everything! As if I didn't have enough trouble right now!"

"Leave? I wasn't leaving! I was—"

"Save it! You stole my stuff!"

"No, I took it with me, but I didn't steal it! The cave started to smell like rotting flesh. I knew it wouldn't be long before some animal came across us, so I moved our packs to—"

"Go to hell."

Sherlock clambered to his feet. "Why did I come back? Ask yourself that. If I were really going to leave, would I come back? I have no reason to be here other than my wanting to be here." He took a step toward John. John could feel Sherlock's breath on his face. It smelled strangely like his favorite spice; cinnamon, wasn't it? Or nutmeg? He couldn't remember the name. "It makes sense, John."

John's eyes were still narrowed, but his breathing had steadied and he felt considerably calmer. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "You do remember that you have a broken rib, don't you? The injury is barely two days old, and I don't believe you've slept since then. I wasn't going to interrupt you. I took all your things with me and found a new location; it's not too far off. I set a few snares, too, since the deer's done for."

John stared intently a Sherlock, looking for a sign that he was telling anything other than the whole truth. Instead, he saw amusement. His anger was entertaining to Sherlock. The faintest of smirks played across Sherlock's lips, a small wrinkle above the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were bright with energy from John's assault.

Sherlock's eyes, John was surprised to notice, were impossibly colored. A foamy spray of blue danced through his irises, like the ocean John had only seen twice. It was the exact color of that icy swirl that froze John's feet to the sand before sweeping the ground from under him. He remembered stumbling, falling into a dune as the sand crumbled away. The tall patch of grass he had landed in had been green, so green. That color was there, too, littered haphazardly above Sherlock's pupils under a dark wave of brown, deeper than the pelts of the seals John had seen playing in the surf, salt water slicking their fur against their backs like an artist trailing his paintbrush wetly across a canvas. It ran thickly from his eyelashes, melting seamlessly into a jagged ring of yellow, fading into a cloudy white. Red veins reached out like tendrils from the corners of his eyes; he had been without sleep longer than John. The veins tickled at the ring around his irises. It was the darkest shade of blue John had ever seen; the kind of dark that convinces you that your hand isn't real, even when you're waving it inches in front of your nose.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, pulling John's focus from the palette before him. A thick heat rose from his neck, washing over his cheeks in his embarrassment. He coughed, ducking his head to cover his face.

"Yes, well. That's… just don't do that. Again. Wake me up next time. If there is one. A next time, I mean." He shuffled his feet.

Sherlock stared at John with an eyebrow quirked up for a few seconds. John squirmed uncomfortably.

"All right." Sherlock said finally, breaking his gaze and sweeping past John toward the entrance to the cave. As he went, John noticed the bottom of his shirt was frayed. Cut off, he noticed when he looked closer. He grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him back.

"What happened to your shirt?" He brushed at it with his hand.

The bottom of his shirt, which he had kept tucked snugly into his waistline, was torn off. The rip was clean aside from a large hole next to the side seam. A few loose threads dangled messily from the new hem. Sherlock had another shirt under it, a white one with thick straps. He had untucked this one as well, leaving the hem to stretch over the top of his fitted pants.

Sherlock brushed John's hand away. "Your bag was falling apart. I didn't want the bottom tearing, so I patched it."

John stared at him blankly. "With your shirt?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "No, I thought I'd use the bolts of fabric I have on hand. Yes, of course with my shirt!"

"Oh." John tilted his head, confused. "Thanks. You didn't have to do that."

"Honestly, it was a small job. It's nothing to get flustered over."

When John had first seen Sherlock, he had noticed how impeccably he was dressed, especially for someone so far from any type of civilization. His clothes, although slightly dusty and a little worn, fit him well. Even through his shirt, John had been able to see that Sherlock had definition. John himself wasn't so bad; his lifestyle kept him in shape. Yet he still found himself feeling inadequate next to Sherlock, who stood at least a foot taller and who John knew from their first encounter was much stronger. John knew he should have been nervous letting his guard down near someone who could so easily overpower him.

And yet as he watched, Sherlock crouched on his toes on the floor of the cave, his fingers steeped together and his brow furrowed in thought. There was something about the gesture that John already recognized. The sense of familiarity was itself unfamiliar to John. It tasted strange on his tongue and sat heavily in his throat.

Sherlock suddenly spoke. "John, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to stay here for a while longer."

John frowned. "Why?"

"I want to study the decomposition of the deer's organs."

"Why?"

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Curiosity."

And just like that, John knew he wasn't going to leave. He was going to stay with this stranger, against his instincts, for the same reason Sherlock was kneeling next to the rotting corpse of a buck; a little bit of curiosity and a burning desire to understand what he was up against.


End file.
